


On the Incompatibility of Egos and Courtship

by Kantayra



Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [3]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Afterlife, Denial, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Minor Fifth Doctor/The Master (Ainley), Minor Fourth Doctor/The Master (Ainley), Minor Seventh Doctor/The Master (Ainley), Minor Sixth Doctor/The Master (Ainley), Purple Prose, The Master is a player, The Third Doctor is a Food Thief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22668661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: The Third Doctor, deeply in denial about being deeply in denial, ineffectually blunders his way about the afterlife in the Matrix for eons before finally stumbling upon the flimsiest excuse imaginable to go fuck the Master senseless the way he was always meant to. (Or, at least, that's how theMasterwould describe the events regaled herein.)
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Third Doctor/The Master (Delgado)
Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592659
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68





	On the Incompatibility of Egos and Courtship

**Author's Note:**

> For this series, I'm going with the theory that Delgado/Ainley are all the same (13th) incarnation of the Master.

“Ah,” the Doctor said, “I see.”

Not that there was much to see at the moment. The Matrix was woefully unimaginative in its default settings, albeit attentive to detail. The room around him looked rather like a generic hotel suite one might find on Earth, were one inclined to take the humans up on their offers of accommodations rather than living out of a perfectly homey (if grounded) TARDIS. The Doctor wondered briefly whether the Matrix had presented the Earth setting as a snide reminder of his past exile to that very planet, or whether the suite was intended in honest good-will. The Matrix flickered for a moment, confused and somewhat apologetic, reassuring him that it was the latter, not the former.

“It’s quite all right, old girl,” he informed the system, which seemed indecisive on what else to show him and for one moment – good grief! – flickered to the Citadel Archive on Gallifrey. Clearly, the poor thing didn’t understand his preferences. “Something more along the lines of my old lab at UNIT, perhaps?” he offered helpfully.

The Matrix settled the surroundings into a hybrid lab/flat, with relief.

“That should do nicely,” the Doctor agreed. He didn’t particularly need the flat portion of his new mental residence, since he couldn’t imagine needing much food or rest, but he appreciated the thought. And, after all, something too like his lab might have proved unpleasant, so obviously lacking the colleagues who had shared that space while he was alive. No, this was quite adequate. “Well done,” he told the Matrix, in recompense for having questioned its intent earlier.

Unlike a TARDIS, the Matrix, alas, did not hum warmly at the back of his mind.

That left the Doctor quite alone and unoccupied, potentially for all eternity. Which, of course, simply wouldn’t do.

Some banging about revealed the necessary parts to fiddle with the time dilator he’d never been able to get properly operational, an adjacent garage complete with a plausible replica of Bessie, and a freshly cut cheese platter. The Doctor had, after all, made a rather exacting science of keeping himself occupied in less-than-ideal circumstances.

Several eons later, he’d concluded that dilating or contracting time was less than satisfactory when time was infinite and unchanging; Bessie was more capable than the most advanced TARDIS invented, yet her radio still wouldn’t produce anything but disco; and he still didn’t have much use for goat cheese, no matter how many varieties he tried. At least the last time he’d been trapped in a lab like this, he’d had entertaining distractions with which to amuse himself. In fact, last time he’d gotten this bored had been right around when—

As if on cue, there was a knock at his door.

It came as a surprise. After all, the Matrix was meant to be an exercise in meditation on the infinite, where one was to passively accept that time was one’s true lord after a lifetime of having named oneself lord over it, and quite a lot of other balderdash he’d never paid attention to at the Academy. However, one thing he was sure of, was that he was meant to be alone. Naturally, the only logical explanation was that the person at the door was him.

He opened it.

The him on the other side appeared to have been vomited out by a rainbow, judging by the state of his coat. It pained the Doctor’s aesthetic sense just to look at him.

“Hello!” In, the other him bounded, without so much as an invitation.

The Doctor had not realised until that point that Time Lords were capable of going colour-blind. _Surely_ , this other Doctor must have some better alternative than the Frankenstein-tailored monstrosity he currently wore?

As if on cue, the other Doctor’s coat switched to an eye-jarring electric blue. “Very well, if you really prefer it so strongly,” the other Doctor conceded, adjusting his lapels once.

The Doctor wasn’t certain he preferred it at all, but he dreaded to discover what any potential third option might be.

The other Doctor had already moved on, his face twisted into a distasteful scowl when he eyed the parts of Bessie’s radio strewn about. “Still haven’t got the radio working, I see. Did you know that if you feed the sonic relay through a feedback loop in the—”

“Hello,” the Doctor cut himself off, somewhat impatiently. He was of the general opinion that, at any given time, he should be the person in the room talking the most. Which, technically, he still was. But it was the principle of thing. “And you are…?”

However, the other Doctor was, it seemed, pathologically incapable of being interrupted. “—Of course, then you’d have to balance out the flux with some sort of stabiliser.” He leaned down over Bessie’s side to squint at the radio dial from only (Venusian) inches away. “The crux of the problem, of course, lies in the fact that sound doesn’t exactly _exist_ in the Matrix, per se. I would recommend creating a vacuum first, then filling the vacuum with some sort of atmospheric admixture, perhaps something simulating the native Earth air. Of course, if you’re feeling especially lazy”—he eyed the Doctor askance, as if he were suspicious that, indeed, the Doctor might be very lazy—“you could always start with the atmosphere from the get-go, skip the whole vacuum step, but the acoustics wouldn’t be quite right.” He turned the dial. ‘Disco Duck’ immediately started blaring at him from the speakers. The other Doctor jerked back with a yelp and quickly scrambled to turn the radio back off. “I’m not sure I can explain why it plays disco, though…” He trailed off, sounding baffled.

“I’m not entirely certain that abomination can even properly be called ‘sound’,” the Doctor huffed. Really, would it kill him to stop pontificating like a pompous arse and interrupting everyone around him? Clearly, his future self had no manners whatsoever. No wonder he’d never gotten along with himself.

The older Doctor gave him a smile that somehow managed to look both pleasant and deeply condescending. “No arguments from me.” He lounged back against the side of Bessie’s front seat and let out a contented sigh. “I’d forgotten all about this old girl, you know?” He patted the seat affectionately.

“Do you mind?” the Doctor said tightly, nudging his counterpart and his entirely ridiculous attire aside pointedly. “I just detailed.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” the future Doctor agreed sheepishly, and backed away from Bessie with his palms held up in apology. The upholstery was safe…for now.

“And, while you’re at it, would you mind explaining which me you are, what you’re doing in my mind, and how the devil you got here in the first place?” the Doctor demanded.

“Oh. Oh dear!” the other Doctor exclaimed. “Of course, you must be new here? The time-streams _do_ have an unfortunate tendency of getting crossed, usually at the most inconvenient of times. If you’re new—”

“I’ve been here for some considerable time,” the Doctor said, quite annoyed with himself at the moment. It seemed that his future self was incapable of speaking to anyone as if they were a perfectly intelligent adult. He did hope it gave the other Doctor an air of authority over humans, because it was rather infuriating with other Time Lords.

“From your perspective, no doubt,” the other Doctor conceded. “I’ll do my best to explain things since we’ve gone out of sync. Which phase of the project are you on?”

“What? Project?”

The other Doctor winced. “Really? Day one? Perhaps I’d better go fetch the Master. I’m rubbish with introductions. Now, hopping into the middle of things…”

“Now, you listen to me. One, you will not be going anywhere until you explain to me what’s happening. Two, what the devil has the Master to do with anything? And, three, it’s all quite simple: start at the _beginning_.” The Doctor’s patience, rather predictably, had snapped.

The other Doctor, infuriatingly, looked smugly knowing at the prospect. “That’s right! I’d forgotten that we used to do that. The high-and-mighty act really is most impressive. I should try it myself more often, now that I think about it.” He gave a sarcastic little bow. “I am absolutely cowed.” He looked about as uncowed as anyone could manage.

“If you _please_?”

“Right, of course. I’m the Doctor, pleased to meet you. The Sixth, to be precise.”

“Ah,” the Doctor said with relief at finally getting some sensible answers. “Of course. I’m the Third.”

The Sixth Doctor jutted out his hand a bit bossily. “Delighted to re-make your acquaintance.”

“Charmed,” the Doctor agreed and shook his hand somewhat warily.

“The Time Lords have made some upgrades to the Matrix since your day,” the Sixth Doctor went on. “Our mind is a single coherent entity, but we’ve each got compartmentalised storage.”

“So, I am to infer that each of our incarnations is self-contained within our larger mindscape?”

The Sixth Doctor tapped the tip of nose twice. “There’s your ‘who’ and ‘how’. As for the ‘what’, the lot of us Doctors have been working on a common problem, in a cyclical, non-linear sort of way. It’s been mostly you running the show so far, though, since you’re the one most affected in the current time-stream.”

“Aha,” the Doctor nodded. “Our ‘project’, I take it?”

“I always knew I was bright,” the Sixth Doctor smirked.

The Doctor found himself in the bizarre circumstance of being both offended and flattered by his own arrogance. In any case, this was bound to be a break from the usual monotony of the Matrix. “Well, then, I suppose I’m on Phase Zero. If you’d be so kind as to tell me the nature of our project?”

The Sixth Doctor nodded, turning studious for a moment, and extended one hand. “Would you mind if I demonstrated?”

The Doctor conceded with his own nod.

The Sixth Doctor circled around until he was behind the Doctor, and then carefully scratched the back of the Doctor’s neck, in that spot that had always been inordinately sensitive in his current incarnation. The demonstration, it seemed, was to prove that, in the simulation of the Matrix, that spot now wasn’t sensitive at all. The Sixth Doctor retreated to one of the chairs by the lab table, where the Doctor joined him presently.

“Interesting,” the Doctor considered. “Tactile sensations were never programmed into the Matrix, then. I suppose it makes sense. The afterlife is meant to be a place of quiet contemplation, an escape from the few remaining pains and pleasures of the flesh that even the looming process and those stodgy blowhards on the High Council weren’t able to wipe out of Time-Lord physiology.”

“Indeed,” the Sixth Doctor said. “Eternal boredom of a thoughtless mind.”

“But, wait,” the Doctor frowned, “that’s not right. The cheese I ate earlier tasted perfectly marvellous. And—”

The Sixth Doctor reached out again and scratched the exact same spot on the Doctor’s neck. And, _ooh_ , there was that spot right there, tingly and soothing and just a bit—

“Ah, I see,” the Doctor said when the Sixth Doctor retracted his hand. “Time here is non-linear, as we discussed. The problem of lack of sensation exists when we focus upon it, thus inserting ourselves into a time eddy before we finished our little project. However, we can just as easily slip into a later time-stream, after we’ve resolved the issue.”

“Provided we do, eventually, get around to resolving the issue,” the Sixth Doctor agreed.

The Doctor scoffed at that. “We have all of eternity for that. And, obviously, at some point, one of us gets the necessary work done.”

The Sixth Doctor gave him a smile that was downright devilish. “Can you imagine the fit the High Council would throw if they knew?”

“Yes,” the Doctor grinned back at him, “the horrors of us actually _enjoying_ ourselves in their sterile contraption!”

“If we _really_ wanted to annoy them, we could even leak the subroutine into the Matrix central databases, let it go viral for a while—”

“—And make sure all of _them_ have a jolly good time, too. They’d hate it, you know.”

“Absolutely,” the Sixth Doctor agreed.

The Doctor was actually starting to tolerate himself, if only a bit. Imagine that. “There’s just one part you left out.”

“Oh?”

“What was that warning about the Master earlier?” the Doctor asked.

The Sixth Doctor’s eyes widened. “Oh yes, that.” He coughed pointedly into his hand. “Hmm. Perhaps I’d better show you this part.”

***

The Doctor put his hands on his hips, leaned back, and surveyed the scene before him critically.

His own mindscape had been perfectly sensible, rippling with prospects and ideas and inspiration. _This_ mindscape, however, was…

“Dull,” he announced and rubbed at his eyes. “Dreary, in fact.”

Next to him, the Fourth Doctor flinched. “Shh!” he hushed, eyes darting about every which way. “Don’t let the Masters hear you say that.”

The Fourth Doctor was there, because the Sixth Doctor was a dreadful guide. The two of them had only made it halfway down the first corridor, before up had walked that smirking Master with the goatee that the Doctor had encountered that one time when the Time Scoop had snagged the first five of him into the Death Zone. The Master had given him a knowing wink – outrageous fellow! – and then pinched his thumb and index finger over the Sixth Doctor’s lips, and led him away by the mouth. The Sixth Doctor hadn’t seemed to object to such blatant disrespect in the slightest. In fact, he’d looked deliriously happy at his abduction.

Fortunately, the Fourth Doctor seemed somewhat more cultured, although in extreme need of a decent tailor, judging by the way that his coat hung off him. Still, after time spent with his Sixth, the Doctor wasn’t going to complain about what any of the rest of him wore.

“I really don’t see why any of this was necessary,” the Doctor said, taking one of the proffered Jelly babies.

“You’re absolutely sure about that, are you?” the Fourth Doctor asked quizzically. The fellow seemed to be either all-knowing or completely baffled by his circumstances, and the Doctor was having a devil of a time telling which.

Out of pure consternation, the Doctor took a second Jelly baby. “I perfectly understand rewiring the Matrix to make improvements, but surely encroaching upon another Time Lord’s mind is…excessive.” The Doctor shifted uncomfortably and avoided looking at where his and the Master’s original incarnations, in their adolescent forms, were inching constantly closer on one of the sofas that lined the atrium of the Masters’ mind.

“Not any old other,” the Fourth Doctor corrected. “One particular other.”

The Doctor’s mind skirted around the thought. Some of these future Doctors really were quite emotional about their corresponding Masters, it seemed. He, however, had no need to see the Master who’d constantly hassled him back on Earth. “Yes, well, each regeneration to his or her own,” the Doctor straightened the lace around his cuffs and absolutely did not look around for his Master. At all. “I’m sure the High Council would object, stringently, so that’s all well and good.” He snared a third, fourth, and possibly fifth Jelly baby, for fortification.

The Fourth Doctor looked down, and his eyes widened in horror. “Don’t steal all the orange ones!” he complained.

The Doctor popped the last of the orange ones into his mouth. “Sorry about that, old chap.”

The Fourth Doctor gave him a side-long look like he was some sort of petulant child. “I’ll just leave you to mingle then, shall I?”

“Please do,” the Doctor looked away from him, uncomfortably.

A pause. “It wasn’t only you, you know,” his Fourth finally said enigmatically.

“Oh?”

“It’s happened even to the best of us. We’re very good at acting too late, as it turns out. Or not acting at all.”

“Hmm,” the Doctor said with supreme disinterest.

Four shrugged and left him. There may have been a slight skip in his step as he went. The Doctor had no interest whatsoever in knowing where (and to whom) he was going; it wasn’t his fault in the slightest that their shared mind provided him with that information anyway. Oh my…

The Doctor shook off his future/memory and returned his attention to the Masters’ mindscape. Unsurprisingly, the Masters in general seemed less sociable than the Doctors: less time spent in the common areas (which really were unforgivably bland) and more time in the rooms. The only other occupants of the Master’s atrium at the moment were the Doctor’s and Master’s adolescent selves, who now seemed to have settled into each other’s laps. The urge to chaperon was almost overwhelming, but somehow the Doctor resisted: he could forgive almost everything in himself aside from becoming an insufferable bore.

Instead, he decided to take a stroll. Just out of curiosity, of course. Getting the lay of the land and all that. It was natural, after three lifetimes of exploration of time and space, that he’d explore his current surroundings. He certainly wasn’t looking for anyone.

Finding the anyone who he wasn’t looking for, actually proved to be more difficult than it should have. The Masters’ incarnations’ doors were numbered sequentially. This, in turn, made it painfully obvious that the Doctor had never actually bothered to _ask_ the Master which incarnation he was.

He could, of course, have checked his future selves’ memories – at least one of him was bound to know – but it was a rather embarrassing omission, really, and he’d just as well not let the rest of him know about it. Not that it was his fault, mind you. When was he supposed to find the time, between thwarting the Master’s nefarious plots and deflecting the Master’s impassioned proposals (of universal dominion, of course), to sit down for a nice catch-up?

Ah well, he was more than capable of figuring it out for himself. His lack of knowledge was merely a minor set-back.

The Master, sneaky devil that he was, had somehow managed to get himself some new regeneration cycles along the way. However, the Doctor had come into the Master’s mind at incarnation 16, and that Master had clearly been in his relative future, given how everything that had occurred in that room had swirled into its own compartmentalised time-stream, such that it made him dizzy to focus on it for too long. On the other end, he knew that his Master had been post-Master Number Four, because the First Doctor had known those early Masters back on Gallifrey. Logically, therefore, the Doctor was looking for someone in Masters Five through Fifteen.

Feeling accomplished in at least that much, the Doctor materialised an e-reader with a good library network, sat himself in the hallway at the halfway mark, near door 10, and pretended to read while he made his surveillance.

It took seconds-hours-eons, but he eliminated Masters Five, Seven, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Fourteen, and Fifteen easily enough, as those Masters popped in and out of their respective rooms. Six, Eight, Twelve, and Thirteen were less forthcoming.

Once, the First Doctor, looking like a full adult rather than the adolescent he’d been the last time the Doctor had seen him, slipped into room Eight. Actually, the First Doctor slipped into a good deal more rooms than that, the sly fox. Perhaps there were some advantages to having such a lengthy lifespan, after all. However, this fact was important, because a fair while later the Second Doctor visited upon room Twelve. Ergo, Six and Eight were eliminated on simple chronological grounds. The Doctor was left with Twelve and Thirteen as possible candidates.

Both rooms had regular visitors. Twelve saw the Second Doctor on multiple occasions; Thirteen saw the Fourth Doctor. That, unfortunately, helped him not at all. For the record, Thirteen also saw the Fifth Doctor. And the Sixth…and the Seventh. Occasionally even multiples at once. Then, just to be vexing one day, the Nineteenth Mistress went in, yanking the Twelfth Doctor behind her by the wrist. She had looked smugly content when the two of them finally emerged some hours later. So had his Twelfth self, the hussy.

The Doctor was developing a sinking suspicion about door number 13.

Finally, his Seventh self settled himself primly on the seat next to him one day, where he was pretending very hard to be working on his project to insert sensation circuits into the Matrix, and took pity on him. “Just out of curiosity, were you ever planning to talk to him?”

The Doctor snorted and programmed in the neural feedback module.

“He’s bound to be aware that you’re skulking out here, you know,” the Seventh Doctor pointed out.

The Doctor accidentally programmed in a few extra senses that had never existed.

“If you’re waiting for him to come to you,” the Seventh went on, undaunted by the Doctor’s lack of response, “you’ll be waiting for a very long time.”

The Doctor hesitated for one moment, and then commented out the erroneous code, rather than deleting it. One never knew what might be interesting to play with in the future.

“He has a busy social calendar, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

The Doctor was rapidly running out of ways to pretend that he wasn’t paying attention to a word the Seventh Doctor was saying.

“What you need,” the Seventh tapped the tip of umbrella on the floor between his feet once deliberately in emphasis, “is a plan. Just a little strategy, mind you, before you try going to him first, hmm? That way you have some guarantee that it won’t kill you. I say only ‘some’ because, of course, it is _the Master_.”

The nerve of his Seventh self, making sense like that!

“I promise you,” the Seventh leaned in sideways to whisper conspiratorially in his ear, “he’s worth it.” With that, the Seventh casually sauntered away, leaving the Doctor entirely red in the face.

Yes, he’d already been well aware of that fact, thank you very much.

***

The Doctor had, quite naturally, responded to the situation by going deeply into denial.

Over the next several days (or possibly centuries), he’d all but worked out how to recreate a fully accurate facsimile of Time-Lord bio-physiological responses into their Matrix constructs. Quite simple, really, even without much help from his other lay-about selves who seemed to find much less productive activities with which to occupy their afterlives, often – the Doctor discovered to his never-ending (literally) consternation – involving bizarre fantasies in the backseat of Bessie.

He’d shooed his Eighth self and the Fourteenth Master out of the aforementioned backseat one day, and for some reason was feeling rather morose about the whole situation. Something about the familiarity in the Fourteenth Master’s smirk – even though an entirely different face wore it – and the encouraging pat on the shoulder the Eighth Doctor had given him in parting.

He wasn’t envious, of course, that so many of the other Doctors took solace in the Master’s company.

He certainly wasn’t lonely.

And even if he were, theoretically, just a bit lonely, he would hardly have chosen the _Master’s_ company, of all Time Lords.

No, the reason he found himself rapping his knuckles on door number 13 in the Master’s mind was simple: He hadn’t seen his Master in ages; ergo, his Master was up to something.

A pause.

The Doctor rapped again. Honestly, he knew the fellow was in there; he barely ever had time to come out, from what the Doctor had gathered.

This time, there were muffled sounds on the other side of the door, and just when the Doctor was about to burst in (undoubtedly to foil some nefarious plot), the door opened.

For a moment, the Doctor thought he’d made a mistake. It was that damned smirky Master, and not the Master’s face that he knew. Then, however, the Master’s visage flickered into those familiar features, rather the way the First Doctor seemed to flit about between ages. It was as if this Master were some sort of metamorph, and only his beard remained constant.

The Doctor got one good, long moment to size up his foe, when a voice from within the room asked “Which of me is it this time?”

The Master turned back to look behind him, and his face transformed again. “Merely an old acquaintance,” the Master’s other face said. The Master’s other face somehow turned even smirkier when he said it.

“‘Merely’?” the Doctor huffed and shoved his way past the Master into the room. “And who is—? Oh.”

The Fifth Doctor was sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to untangle the mess of his braces in order to put them back on properly. Very little deductive ability was required to infer what had been occurring in that room before the Doctor burst in.

“Now, now, my dear.” The Master’s face transformed back to his normal self when he addressed the Doctor again; it must’ve been some sort of temporal flux: the same Master, somehow wearing different faces in different time-streams for different Doctors. “Try not to look so crestfallen.”

“I absolutely am not crestfallen,” the Doctor huffed, absolutely crestfallenly. “In fact, I’m quite relieved that another of me has been keeping close watch—”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” the Master chuckled while simultaneously shifting over to smirky face again, and ran a hand casually up the Fifth Doctor’s shoulder, snapping one of his braces back into place as he did so.

The Fifth Doctor looked terribly sheepish. “I was just on my way out anyway. Actually, to help with…you know…” His raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

Ah yes, the project that the Doctor had just finished, based off the work that the Fifth Doctor would now do first. In the Doctor’s future. Whoever had planned the time schema of the Matrix did seem to have a few screws loose.

The smirky-faced Master slid a proprietary hand through the Fifth Doctor’s hair before retreating to the sideboard and taking on his true face once more.

The Fifth Doctor rose from the bed, gave the Doctor a sympathetic shrug, and said “Good luck” in a voice that implied only too well how much he thought the Doctor would need it.

The Doctor was really getting quite tired of himself, interfering and inferring and infuriating. He huffed and scoffed a bit, and the Fifth Doctor took that as his cue to leave.

Once they were alone, the Master continued to refuse to look the Doctor’s way, sipping at a glass of brandy as if it were remotely interesting enough to capture the Master’s full attention for any significant period of time. At least he’d settled on the form the Doctor was most familiar with, now that the two of them were alone.

That thought – the two of them alone – oddly enough kindled some sort of anxious response in the Doctor. He cleared his throat unnecessarily, and finally the Master turned to look at him with that half-arrogant and half-amused quirk of his eyebrow that the Doctor was sure was carefully calculated to fray his temper.

“What,” the Master said in a tone of jovial mockery, “you’ve come all this way, and you have nothing to say to me? Don’t tell me there is something in all the universe capable of restraining your tongue.”

Well now, _there_ was an image.

“Just one thing, I would say,” the Doctor retorted, nudged the Master to the side, and helped himself to a drink. “You are absolutely deplorable, you know. And you won’t get away with it, either.” He downed a healthy swig, purely for refreshment, and refilled his glass immediately.

“And what is it, exactly, that you think I’m plotting this time?” The Master still seemed far too entertained by the accusation and not nearly flummoxed enough. His lower lip briefly traced the rim of his glass, clearing off the taste of brandy, before he took another slow sip.

The Doctor’s mind blanked for a moment, but only a very brief moment. “You’re attempting to make me jealous, of course.” He brushed past the Master, away from the cloud of body heat that hung between them whenever the Master – as always – stood far too close. He’d been hoping for somewhere to sit, but the room seemed to consist of the very large bed, the sideboard, and two worktables scattered with electronics: not particularly hospitable, which was to be expected considering its owner. The Doctor scattered some of the electronics with his free hand, and perched on the corner of one of the worktables.

“Oh, is that what I’m doing?” The Master quirked a knowing eyebrow at him and retired to the bed. He sprawled deliberately back against the headboard, his suit stark black against the white sheets, drink still in hand, legs stretched out in front of him with ankles crossed, and watched the Doctor like a scheming serpent.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “ _Obviously_ ,” he said as condescendingly as he could manage, which was quite impressively condescending, thank you very much.

“Is it working?” the Master laughed.

“Of course not!” the Doctor insisted, then blushed.

The Master, with his free hand, ran gloved fingertips slowly down the centre of his chest, along his sternum, between his two hearts, down to his navel, and then just below, only to…stop. The Doctor absolutely did not think about how disappointing that was. Instead, he deliberately looked away.

“You surprise me, Doctor,” the Master said after a poignant pause. “I always knew you were judgemental, but I never took you for cowardly as well.”

“It isn’t cowardice!” the Doctor insisted, finally allowing himself to meet the Master’s eyes.

“No? Then I suppose you just dropped by to steal my brandy. And all that lurking outside my door…for the delightful scenery, no doubt?” The Master was clearly taunting him, as always. The disturbing thing was that the Doctor was just starting to realise how much he enjoyed that.

The two of them locked gazes, and the Doctor felt the nearly overwhelming pressure of the Master’s indomitable mind behind those dark, magnetic eyes. If the Doctor wasn’t careful, he could easily be drawn in. The Master’s mental powers were formidable, undeniable, and more than a little tantalising.

However, the Doctor was not so easily vanquished as all that. Slowly, the Doctor rose from the table where he’d perched himself, and approached the bed. He could see the Master’s breath hitch in his throat, although otherwise the Master did an admirable job concealing his reaction. (Well, aside from the Master not-so-surreptitiously draping a blanket over his lap.)

“Are you…?” the Master began. Their minds were still vying enough that the Doctor could hear the telepathic echo of “under my control?” laid over a much more genuine and tentative “ _mine_?”

“I rather think,” the Doctor said, a bit harshly, “that it’s quite the opposite.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hip mere inches from the Master’s, and felt the Master’s mind bloom into a field of hopeful “what ifs” and “maybes” and “oh pleases” that even the Master couldn’t ruthlessly nip in the bud faster than they could sprout.

The Master set his glass down on the end table. So did the Doctor.

“Poppycock,” the Master insisted defiantly, “I finally have you right where I want you, Doctor.” From his position leaning back against the headboard, he looked up at the Doctor with languid bedroom eyes, assessing the Doctor’s imminent capture.

The Doctor remained perched on the edge of the bed – the cusp of the Master’s trap, as it were – and refused to back down. “Yes,” the Doctor agreed, “precisely where you’ve always wanted me. That much has been clear for some time.” He inched farther onto the bed, so that his thigh and the Master’s barely brushed, and he watched something like long-forsaken hope flit over the Master’s face for the briefest second, before the Master was able to school his features again. “Which, of course, gives me the advantage.”

The Master’s brow furrowed, and his expression darkened. He snapped out with one hand to capture the Doctor’s wrist, but the Doctor beat him to it, toppling them both back onto the mattress as he did so. The two of them struggled together, twisting and tangling amid the blankets, until the Doctor finally wrestled the Master into a Venusian reverse shoulder hold. The Master whimpered and yielded, and the Doctor was able to force him back onto the bed, pinning the Master’s hands on either side of his head.

The Master’s eyes flashed up at him mutinously, trapped for the moment but never beaten, a foe more brilliant than the Doctor would have dared wish for, even in his darkest dreams.

“Let us discuss,” the Doctor began in his most pompous tone, “at long last, your rather revealing decision to come harass me on Earth.”

A flicker of something like genuine alarm showed in the Master’s eyes for only a moment, and his struggles against the Doctor’s cage intensified. The Doctor took advantage of the Master’s squirming to situate his hips between the Master’s thighs, subduing the Master’s attempts at escape quite thoroughly. As quickly as it had started, the Master’s rebellion faded, and he shut his eyes, helpless under the Doctor’s piercing insight.

“You never told me,” the Doctor continued more gently this time, “that you had reached your final life.”

The Master scoffed at that. “An unfortunate circumstance that I neatly rectified, as you’re no doubt aware.”

“Yes,” the Doctor agreed, “most clever of you. But then, I would expect nothing less.”

It was fascinating, really, to watch how the Master melted at the slightest hint of a compliment from the Doctor, the Master’s body relaxing loose and compliant into the Doctor’s embrace. The imbalance of power between them was entirely unfair, the Doctor was forced to concede, and he could understand why the Master had railed so vehemently against it over the centuries.

“With only one life left to live,” the Doctor concluded, both necessarily and unnecessarily cruelly at once, “you chose to live it with me.”

The Master raged beneath him, frenzied in his attempt to escape at one moment, and then completely limp and defeated the next. “D-Don’t laugh at me!” he actually stuttered, furious and demanding, and yet sounding raggedly broken at the same time.

“Oh, my dear fellow,” the Doctor leaned so that his lips brushed the Master’s ear, “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he whispered soothingly.

The Master gulped, but did not respond in either the positive or the negative.

“You might have told me,” the Doctor continued, “but for your excessive pride.” He nipped once at the Master’s earlobe.

 _That_ earned him a longing sigh.

“I’ve always said your ego will be the death of you.” The Doctor pressed a second kiss, this time against the Master’s cheek.

“You’re one to talk.” The Master was sparring with him again, even if his voice still sounded shaky.

The Doctor was nearly overcome with relief; the thought of a pliant, vanquished Master was so abhorrent that it didn’t bear thinking about. The Doctor _needed_ the Master like this, for the thrill of the hunt, the challenge of a second brilliant mind working both against and in counterpoint to his own.

“If you _had_ told me,” the Doctor concluded, “I’d have been an utterly sanctimonious prig about it.”

The Master snorted in agreement.

“—But I would only have been denying, with sheer self-destructive futility, my own…well…” There was probably meant to be some sort of confession at the end there, but the Doctor found his perspicacity abruptly floundering, at a complete loss for words.

The Master snorted again, this time in amusement. “I hadn’t believed it possible,” the taunting lilt was back in his voice now, “but you’re even more abysmal at this than I am.”

The Doctor slumped against him, relieved. “That does seem to be the unfortunate predicament in which we find ourselves.”

The Master paused, as if considering said predicament carefully. “You might,” he suggested, “continue on the way you were. That wasn’t…unpleasant.”

The Doctor stifled a laugh against the Master’s beard. The Master had earned that title in truth when it came to understatement. “As you wish, my dear.” The Doctor resumed kissing his way toward the Master’s mouth.

The Master didn’t reciprocate in any way until the Doctor’s lips reached the corner of his mouth. Then, abruptly, he wrapped his arms tightly around the Doctor – when the scoundrel had distracted the Doctor to get them free, was a mystery to the Doctor at the moment – and turned his head to capture the Doctor in a deep, sensual kiss.

The Doctor found himself unable to resist opening his mouth at the Master’s insistence. The Master’s tongue pierced him, parried his own tongue, drawing the Doctor ever deeper and hotter into the passionate fire that had stoked to life between them.

One of the Master’s hands rose to cradle the Doctor’s head, entrenching their kiss more profoundly, before his fingers slithered deviously downward and found that spot on the Doctor’s neck, Right. There!

The Doctor gasped into the Master’s mouth, a shiver of bliss raking down his spine. The Master groaned in response, seemingly overcome at having successfully elicited even such a simple act of unbridled passion from the Doctor’s lips. The Doctor really would have to make conscious effort to show his appreciation for the Master’s more admirable talents; it wouldn’t do, now that they’d come to this tacit agreement, to have the Master questioning the Doctor’s reciprocal enthusiasm.

When the Doctor finally extracted himself from their kiss, the Master’s body was literally _trembling_ beneath him.

“Don’t you dare,” the Master hissed menacingly, his eyes dark and vicious, “ _stop_.”

“As if I could,” the Doctor assured him, letting his hand trail up the Master’s arm to the collar of his Nehru suit. “Now, do tell me, because it’s long been a certain point of academic fascination with me: how exactly does one get you _out_ of this particular garment?”

The Master growled and guided the Doctor’s hand to the fold underneath the collar where the suit’s buttons started. Eyes locked in eternal contention, their hands moved together, further and further down, exposing the Master as they did so. This Master had a splendid physique, the Doctor was pleased to note: stocky but strong, just soft enough to have indulged properly in the pleasures of life and to share the delicacy of those pleasures with an eager lover.

After a certain point, the Master left the Doctor to his own devices and began tearing wildly at the Doctor’s frills, stripping him rather violently of his clothes. The Doctor would’ve complained, because that shirt happened to be his favourite, but a stray thought was all the Matrix needed to repair the rips once the Master had thrown the garment to the floor. And there was something quite compelling about the chaotic frenzy in the Master’s movements, a certain raw desperation that spoke of having been denied far too long.

“My Doctor,” the Master breathed warmly against the Doctor’s lips when they’d finally fully disrobed each other and lay together once more, this time flesh to flesh. His hands cupped the Doctor’s cheeks, pulling the Doctor ever closer, their lips brushing in counterpoint to their breaths, the Master’s beard tickling the edges of the Doctor’s lips just enough to tease.

“I, ah, have something for you,” the Doctor said, forcing himself to focus. Rational thought was rather difficult when the Master’s foot was sliding up the back of his thigh before catching around the Doctor’s waist, spreading the Master for him and aligning their bodies.

The Master raised a scornful eyebrow. “That’s a dreadful euphemism, even for you.”

The Doctor’s cheeks flushed. “Not _that_!” he insisted. The Master’s expression turned even more scornful. “That is, not _only_ that,” the Doctor corrected. He reached over to where his trousers had landed on the mattress beside them, and pulled the modified Matrix-interface module from his pocket. “Here,” the Doctor said.

“What?” the Master frowned slightly at the device.

Then the Doctor flicked it on with his thumb, smugly, and the Master’s eyes shot open in amazement.

“ _Ah_!” the Master exclaimed raggedly when, suddenly, his nervous system was reconfigured such that every point the Doctor’s skin touched became an orgasmic nerve cluster.

The Doctor had _known_ he would find good use for those extra sensory nodes he’d accidentally programmed in earlier. “Too much?” he taunted.

“ _Never_!” the Master snarled and yanked the Doctor down into a forceful kiss, their teeth clashing and tongues devouring.

The Doctor groaned into their joined mouths, savouring each startled gasp that escaped from the Master’s throat when some part of his body that he’d hitherto ignored suddenly sent sparks of bliss throughout his body’s circuitry.

“Well, then,” the Doctor pulled back from their kiss with an insufferably victorious smile, “you won’t mind if I do?”

The Doctor took one careful moment to align his member properly with the Master’s entrance, and then nudged himself gently but firmly inside. Characteristically, the Doctor had forgotten the lubricant; fortunately, the Master hadn’t. After only the slightest moment of resistance as the Doctor breached him, the Master’s body yielded entirely to the Doctor, gripping the Doctor in an embrace of smooth, silky velveteen.

The Master howled in ecstasy at the heightened sensations, on top of the two of them finally uniting in proper coitus.

The Doctor had thought to wallow in his victory just a bit, but the feeling of the Master’s body clenching around him, the way the Master clawed at his back, the look of naked longing in the Master’s eyes… It was all irresistible, and the Doctor found himself equally out of control almost immediately, his hips moving rhythmically to capture the Master’s sweet, slick caresses, his hands all but flying over the Master’s body, invoking wave upon wave of sensation, making the Master scream his throat raw with the Doctor’s name, and sweeter names as well: “my dear” and “my darling” and then, finally, at the peak of ecstasy _finally_ , after all these years, “my dear _est_.”

One wouldn’t have thought that the superlative form of the nominalised adjective would be what finally made the Doctor spill his essence deep into the Master’s body. Actually, correct that: anyone who had known the Doctor for any significant period of time would _absolutely_ expect a quirk of grammar to be what finally pushed him past the pinnacle of pleasure.

He came quickly and sloppily and, embarrassingly, whimpering the Master’s name in fervent adoration as he did so. The Doctor could do better than this, of course; the Doctor _wanted_ to do better than this. But, as long and needy and bitter as their courtship had been, the Doctor couldn’t help but feel that, for their first time, this had been absolutely exquisite.

The Master seemed to agree well enough for the first minute or so, and then he grunted and shoved at the Doctor’s shoulder. “You’re becoming oppressive,” the Master complained. “And, if you’re not planning to do anything more, would you mind returning my nervous system to normal? The overstimulation is getting a bit much.”

Apparently, the Doctor had unwillingly collapsed on top of the Master. “So sorry,” the Doctor said, completely unmoving. “This is most inconsiderate of me, I agree. However, the problem seems to be that I cannot move any of my limbs…”

The Master rolled his eyes and finally succeeded on shifting them onto their sides. The Doctor watched with rapt fascination as his limbs wrapped bonelessly around the Master’s body, seemingly of their own accord, until the two of them were pressed together side by side.

The Master reached over, found the Doctor’s device, and flicked the off switch. A soft sigh escaped his lips as the constant waves of orgasms ceased. “You,” he informed the Doctor warmly, “are a menace.”

“Yes, well,” the Doctor agreed with a lazy yawn, “you are the absolute scourge of my existence.”

The Master’s eyes widened marginally, and something softened around the edges of his lips. “Am I really?” he blurted out hopefully, before his mouth tightened again, as if he were angry at himself for making so fatal an admission.

A dozen very satisfyingly snide retorts came to the Doctor’s lips. He really did love a good banter. However, it was sometimes possible to have too much of a good thing. He pondered for one moment, carefully, and then finally admitted, “My one and only.”

The Master’s body relaxed against his, his eyes falling shut, and a smile that looked almost sweet playing across his lips. “My one and only,” he agreed with the same unfettered passion with which he had once offered the Doctor half of the universe.

In a universe that contained just the two of them, the Doctor supposed that was what he now had.

“But don’t think,” the Master warned savagely, his tone quite in contrast to the way his head cuddled into the space between the Doctor’s neck and shoulder, his nose brushing – _oh!_ – that absolutely delightful spot on the Doctor’s nape, “that I don’t plan to turn that infernal device on _you_ next time around.”

“My dearest Master,” the Doctor said fervently, “I should be terribly disappointed if you didn’t.”


End file.
